


Hellfire

by GraceTyabb



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Kink Meme, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Partners, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceTyabb/pseuds/GraceTyabb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for Les Miserables Kink Meme Prompt: "Omegaverse. Feuilly is in heat and desperately needs an alpha. Of course those in the ABC are happy to court him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hellfire

**Author's Note:**

> Another fill for the Les Mis Kink Meme.  
> Prompt:  
> "Omegaverse. Feuilly is in heat and desperately needs an alpha. Of course those in the ABC are happy to court him."
> 
> It still feels so, SO weird to be posting such explicit stuff, but I keep doing it...
> 
> Partly named for the song of the same name from the Hunchback of Notre Dame, mostly because the word comes up in the fill itself. I'm not very well versed in A/B/O dynamics, and this is only my second fill, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Also unbeta'd, so hopefully there aren't too many mistakes. None the less, enjoy!

Feuilly had never been one to ask for help. He’d handled each of his heats thus far without it, and even if he was now surrounding himself with young, attractive alphas on a daily basis, he wasn’t going to let that cause him to lose his dignity. However, he couldn’t imagine going through many more of these heats without finally breaking down.

Every heat he went through without _properly_ attending to it was worse than the last, and _Les Amis de l‘ABC_ being made up of almost entirely alphas only made the heats more frequent. The first time he went through a heat after he began attending meetings at the Musain led him to lock himself away in his small apartment without leaving for any reason. The Amis seemed to know what was going on, and blessedly ignored the situation, welcoming Feuilly back as if he had been on holiday. They were only really acquaintances then.

Feuilly had been expecting a good long break until his next heat, despite the fact that the gap had been closing faster and faster due to his abstinence. Instead it was only just over a month before he had to lock himself away again, only taking the time to write a letter and send it off to Enjolras alerting him to the fact he will be absent from meetings for some time.

Feuilly had a routine. One he stuck to strictly. The door was shut and locked, with his landlord bearing the only other key, and his window was tightly sealed to stop his scent from leaking out into the street. After that, his only goal was to try and abate the hellfire burning in his blood.

“Feuilly?” A voice echoes from the hallway, following after a few short knocks. The man himself groans, half from frustration and half from the sound of the voice, low enough to belong only to an alpha.

“Not now, Enjolras, I’m unwell.” He bites, writhing on his bed sheets and scrunching his eyes, praying his golden haired friend will just go away.

Instead, he hears the sound of a key in a lock, and realises Enjolras had gotten the key, gotten it from...

... he was going somewhere with that thought, really. It’s just exceptionally difficult to think while on heat with four fingers shoved up your ass. Enjolras, blinking owlishly from the doorway, seems entirely nonplussed about it, shutting and locking the door again behind him. Despite his shame Feuilly can’t bring himself to remove his fingers, and instead continues to pump them and grits his teeth. He’d never been so close to another alpha so deep into his heat before, and it wasn’t helping.

At some point Enjolras had found a spare sheet of parchment and was writing something upon it swiftly. He opened the window, calling out of it ‘Gavroche!’ – the boy must have followed Enjolras here, as he is wont to do – and asking the boy to deliver the message to Combeferre as soon as possible. He then shuts the window again, and calmly turns back to face Feuilly. Somehow, Feuilly meets his gaze.

“My friend,” Enjolras says, “this is not something you have to go through alone.” He removes his coat, laying it over the chair by the desk, and takes slow steps towards Feuilly’s position on the bed. Feuilly had thrown his head back and scrunched his eyes shut as tightly as he could, trying to ignore the urge to leap from the bed and tackle Enjolras to the floor. The hand that touches his shoulder is burning hot, and seems to force Feuilly’s eyes open. Enjolras is leaning over him, the beginnings of a sweat forming on his brow – and only now does Feuilly realise how much restraint this must take Enjolras to accomplish – and he lays a hand on Feuilly’s cheek.

“All you have to do is say yes, Feuilly, and we’ll help you through this.”

Enjolras must have known what his prescense was doing to Feuilly, else he would not be using it against him so; it made it so much more difficult to think with an alpha so close. It is against everything Feuilly has ever stood for, but any pride he had lays shattered on the floor at Enjolras’ feet, so he nods once, groaning.

In a matter of seconds Enjolras is upon him, his trousers somehow unbuckled and his fingers taking the place of Feuilly’s, so much thicker than his own, and Feuilly feels like he is suffocating in the heat. Enjolras licks at the sweat on the fan maker’s neck, aligns his member with Feuilly’s leaking entrance and fills him completely. It takes Feuilly a few moments to realise the scream he hears is coming from his own mouth.

It is quick, and deep, and everything Feuilly needed, and it doesn’t take him long to come, Enjolras following after him with a bite at the delicate skin under his jaw. Suddenly it is as if the room has been flooded with cool air; Feuilly can breathe again, and the boiling in his veins meters down to a simmer. Enjolras is almost lax on top of him, single-mindedly mouthing and nipping at any skin he has access to. The relief almost brings tears to his eyes, but it is short lived. He was still hard, and the restlessness was coming back, but Enjolras is rocking into him again as if he were waiting for it to happen. His hands grasp the short, curly hairs at the back of Enjolras’ neck and he allows the golden-haired man to lead him to a second orgasm.

A short time later there is a knock at the door. Enjolras straightens almost immediately, closing his trousers and donning his coat before opening the door to allow Combeferre entry. The speak in hushed voices Feuilly is too flustered to understand, and Combeferre spares him a few glances before bidding Enjolras _adieu_ and entering Feuilly’s apartment, shutting the door behind him.

Combeferre had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, which _really_ did things to Feuilly though it never had before, and approached almost as stoically as Enjolras did. He slipped a hand under the fan maker’s ass to finger him methodically, asking him a series of questions about his symptoms and conditions as if all of this were perfectly routine. Feuilly could barely choke out each answer; something about Combeferre’s nonchalant, medical approach to the situation was incredibly arousing, making it more and more difficult to answer his increasingly specific questions.

“How long do your heats usually last?” Combeferre asks, running a thumb over one of Feuilly’s nipples while his other hand brushed his prostate.

Feuilly gasped, “Five days. Sometimes more.” Combeferre makes a displeased sound, removing his fingers before taking off his cravat, vest and shirt.

“The more direct skin contact there is the better.” He explains, removing the rest of his clothing and dropping it in a pile beside the bed. “There’s a chance your heats will grow shorter if they are dealt with properly from now on. Don’t be surprised if you begin to return to normal sooner than usual.”

He slides on top of Feuilly, as Enjolras did, pressing their chests together and running his hands across Feuilly’s sides. He lifts Feuilly’s legs, wraps them about his waist and plunges inside him, hitting the fan maker’s prostate in one fell swoop. Feuilly arches right off the bed, moaning. His voice chokes to a halt when Combeferre continues his assault, grasping Feuilly’s erection and thumbing the tip. He is calculated and methodical, but in no way unsatisfactory, and stays with Feuilly all through the night. When he awakes the next morning after a short, fitful sleep, it is to Combeferre sitting dressed at his desk, writing out some of his symptoms and any information he has so far.

“Luckily you were already a day into your heat when Enjolras alerted me to your condition,” he supplies, finishing up his writing and putting away the ink and pen. He folds the paper and places it in his pocket, checks over Feuilly one final time and leaves moments before the arrival of Bahorel.

In every way Enjolras and Combeferre were careful and calculated actions, Bahorel was swiftness and energy. The larger man ends up fucking Feuilly against the wall, knocking a painting to the floor. Bahorel is almost brutal in his assault on Feuilly’s body, a stereotypical alpha response; his hands bruise Feuilly’s hips and his teeth leave even more marks across his neck, his pace fast enough to leave Feuilly whining and scratching lines down his companion’s back. Bahorel chuckles breathily at him and utters some nonsensical joke that seemed hilarious at the time. As much of a dandy as Bahorel usually was, he seemed to be pushing past that rather well, instead focusing on Feuilly with an almost worrying ferocity. Feuilly gets a whole half-hour of relief before they fuck again, this time with Feuilly pushed against his desk with a view out on to the street, vaguely aware that anyone on the street could look up and see into his second floor apartment, see _them_. But the thought is pushed away.

Bahorel seemed to have near boundless energy, staying a good way into the afternoon, before trading in with Courfeyrac. The curly haired student had clearly come straight from class; he had a stack of books tucked under one arm, and looked windswept, as if he had ran the whole way.

“Sorry, I was kept back in class. How is he?”

“Fine,” Bahorel replies, buttoning his vest. “He’s subject to change swiftly, though. Do try to keep him occupied.” With that and a wink, Bahorel was out the door as swiftly as he had entered. Courfeyrac spares Feuilly an amused look, placing his books upon the desk and noting the objects strewn about its surface.

“Seems no one wants to leave you alone for too long, my friend. Whether it is out of worry or desire I can’t say. Perhaps both.” He hums, removing his cravat. Courfeyrac’s casual attitude was confusing, to say the least, since none of the others had behaved quite as normally as him. “I’m surprised they didn’t send for me first, seeing as this would be my area of expertise, if I were to have one.” This causes Feuilly to laugh, barking and hoarse from all the noise he had made. Courfeyrac’s eyes darken, finally taking in Feuilly’s naked form, and he takes a deep breath of the room’s scent. His eyes close, and there is truly something animalistic about him for a moment.

Suddenly Courfeyrac is across the room, pulling Feuilly and his bed covers down into the floor. Courfeyrac strips himself and they roll about on the floor like wrestling children, laughing at each other. Feuilly sensed that while for some of his previous visitors this was a duty, something perhaps they felt they could not enjoy due to Feuilly’s condition, for Courfeyrac this was an occasion to be savoured.

“Sex is nothing to be denied or undesired, my friend,” Courfeyrac said to him later, carefully choosing pale places in which to leave love bites slowly. He picks Feuilly’s inner thigh. “It is something to be enjoyed. And we are friends, are we not? There’s no better company that those who know you best, if you ask me.”

Courfeyrac had a way of keeping Feuilly occupied even between bouts of sex, but only stayed until nightfall before kissing his cheek and sauntering out. It only occurred to Feuilly that he had not eaten since the day before when Joly and Bossuet arrived, together as always, with enough food to feed an army at Joly’s insistence. On their way in Bossuet managed to put his foot through the painting on the floor, though this surprised no one. By that point Feuilly was loose, and filled with no small amount of come, and so Joly and Bossuet were able to take him together, wrapped around his body tightly. By the time they were finished, cuddled together upon the floor, Feuilly fell into a reasonably calm sleep for almost five hours. Between the two men Feuilly was fucked continuously into the morning, and met Jehan’s arrival with a drowsy smile and a limp arm beckoning him.

Jehan was the first to kiss him properly, upon the lips. Feuilly didn’t know if he would have accepted such as action from the others, but Jehan was the exception to almost every rule. With Jehan it was soft and slow, filled with gentle touches and poetry whispered into his ear. Jehan’s hips rolled more than they drew back and forth, and they often stilled, silent for even up to a few minutes, so Feuilly could truly feel Jehan within him. In their moments of quiet inbetween, Jehan would plait tiny little braids into Feuilly’s hair, humming under his breath and nuzzling the fan maker’s neck with his nose. With the others, Feuilly knew it was nothing more than fucking - at least right now - but with Jehan it would only ever be called making love. Jehan lived and breathed love for his fellow man, and his every action was driven by it.

With Jehan he lazed away most of the day, even kissing his friend goodbye when the time came, utterly confusing himself. Jehan just seemed pleased to have found someone with whom to share his boundless affection. Feuilly decides then and there he would not mind having Jehan, or really any of the _Amis_ , visit him this way again. Should the event call for it, of course.

He had a short time of freedom, and didn’t quite know what to do with himself. The bed sheets and cover had been pulled back onto the bed earlier, by Joly he thinks, and he didn’t think he had enough control to get any work done, so he slumped onto his bed and drifted between daydream and clarity. He felt almost liquefied, and truly, for the first time in his life, fucked out.

Grantaire enters his apartment silently; carrying nothing but what looks like a bucket of water and a cloth. He pulls Feuilly’s desk chair away from the desk and places the bucket next to it. Feuilly guesses Grantaire is probably as sober as he will ever be, the time spent detoxing accounting for his lateness, and is rather touched by the notion. The only noise in the room is Grantaire’s footsteps and their quiet breathing. Feuilly can barely react to Grantaire lifting him and sitting in the chair, placing Feuilly in his lap, facing him. Grantaire is hard, straining against his pants and Feuilly can feel it, but Grantaire does nothing involving that, instead wetting the cloth and carefully wiping the stale sweat away from Feuilly’s brow. Grantaire’s touch is cool, and Feuilly leans into it and sighs. ‘Taire is probably the last person Feuilly expected to be taking care of him like this, but he doesn’t have the energy in him to care. The need in him is so low it’s almost unnoticeable, especially compared to before.

“Why aren’t you...?” Feuilly trails off, gesturing weakly between the two of them with a wave of his hand. Grantaire continues to brush Feuilly’s skin with the cloth, carefully, softer that Feuilly had known him to be.

“I thought... I know it is not in you to ask for help.” Grantaire says finally; his face displayed a range of emotions rapidly. The man cannot seem to decide what he wants to say. Feuilly waits patiently, enjoying the feel of the damp cloth against his abused skin. “But I did not want you to feel as if I were taking advantage of your situation. You have endured enough.”

Feuilly wants to laugh, but cannot find the strength to do more than huff. “I would hardly consider this something I was enduring. Not anymore. I’m sure many an omega dreamed of such an event.” Grantaire nods, seeming to accept Feuilly’s statement, before wetting the cloth again.

“Still. I would prefer to hear it from you.” Feuilly knew, then, that this was the appearance of Grantaire’s more alpha tendencies; the need for ownership, control. He wanted Feuilly to come to him, rather than for him to take Feuilly without thought.

Any time before, Feuilly was sure he would have been insulted. He may be an omega, but he is a man, a worthy man, who doesn’t need any help. He doesn’t take a sou he hasn’t earned. To request help, especially for something like this, would be to admit defeat.

Yet something about this no longer feels like giving in. He no longer feels shame from his need, but rather blessed from it. Would any part of these past few days had happened otherwise? So here, mostly sated and in no real need of release, Feuilly grasps Grantaire’s hair and pulls his head upwards to meet his eyes.

“Oh, 'Taire,” he sighs, eyes drooping, “I would very much like for you to fuck me.”

And that’s it for Grantaire. He’s attacking Feuilly’s neck with kisses, abandoning his cloth and grasping at Feuilly’s hips. Feuilly moans and rocks against him, releasing the curly black hair to undo Grantaire’s pants before he is being lifted and taken over to the bed. He is dropped, but somehow ends up straddling the other man, and sinking down onto his member with a hiss.

Grantaire is holding his waist almost the whole way around with his massive hands, but Feuilly is in control, rolling his hips and rising up and down, riding the alpha for all he is worth. Both are hissing and panting and making noise, but the sense of control Feuilly feels for the first time in days refreshing. The sound of Grantaire pumping into Feuilly is almost obscene, as sloppy as he is with lubrication and come. It does not take long for both to reach completion, though Grantaire forcefully lifts the omega up and pulls himself out first, Feuilly taking Grantaire into his hand to finish him off. After a few moments of breathless refrain, Feuilly gives the man below him a look of confusion.

Grantaire’s eyes widen, sitting up to face his companion. “You... you have been taking precautions, haven’t you?”

Against what, Feuilly wonders for a moment, before it hits him. The entire point of going into heat was that it signified the time an omega was most fertile.

Feuilly groans in frustration, head drooping into Grantaire’s chest. He would have to visit a doctor first thing tomorrow.


End file.
